


Rooting

by AlsoknownasMori (Captain_Mori)



Category: Monster Brothel Erotic CYOA Game, The Monster Brothel (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Breathplay, Domination, F/M, arborophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 15:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17552657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Mori/pseuds/AlsoknownasMori
Summary: Breck seduces the reader.





	Rooting

A blood-red rose, rich with a heavy thick cloying scent was what had drawn you to the bower, half obscured in an enormous thicket of bristling thorns. You had been curious to smell the solitary bloom, eager to smell the luxuriant fragrance, surrounded by excessively whorled, tightly budded branches.  
In the subtle and haunting half-light of the setting sun, you had been entranced by this particular bloom, and lightly brushed your fingers against its bulbous head to smell it. When you withdrew your hand, you had not immediately noticed that you had pricked your finger on a thorn, but were instead distracted by the oily smooth secretions of the plush petals.  
In the distance, a voice had called your name, and you walked towards it, fingers subconsciously rubbing the secretion into themselves. It wouldn’t be until much later that you would notice the paper-thin cut on your finger.  
And when the sun slipped under the horizon, something long dormant stirred.

When the crescent moon was high, you were restless. You could not forget the overgrown thicket, or that glorious rose, and you rose from your creaking chair in a daze.  
“Coffee. I should have some Coffee.”  
You busied yourself with the kettle, picking out your favourite mug as you heaped a spoonful of coffee into it, poured a ration from the cream jug, and scooped two teaspoons of sugar into the cup, idly stirring the spoon as you waited for the kettle to boil. Your finger stung a little, and you instinctively sucked on it for temporary relief as you poured the kettle with your other hand.  
Walking with your coffee back to your room, you glanced casually outside to the garden, and there you saw him.

You saw a shape imbued with raw natural energy, a beautiful and unnatural figure with vine-like hands that held a rose in elongated fingertips. You dropped your cup, but you did not realise it, entranced by the leafy-haired, black-eyed, and strong muscled strange apparition outside your window. The spilt coffee splashed against your leg, and the sting of the hot liquid drew your gaze momentarily away from the figure down to the floor, but when you returned your gaze to look to the window, the figure was gone. You did not rest easy that night, and dreamt fitful dreams about being lost in the forest.

The next day, you noticed the plucked rose on left your windowsill, shielded from the sun’s direct light by the shade of the nearby tree, the last of the yellow leaves standing erect, their fallen brethren lying languidly in piles around the base of the tree You opened your window to take the rose into the house, and holding it close to your face as you greedily inhale the rich aroma. You wonder briefly how the rose appeared at your window, and you lose yourself in the moment, as the rose’s scent oozes up through the petals, making you somewhat intoxicated.  
The phone rings, but you do not hear them, it being a distant noise in the background.  
The rose calls out to you, and you dimly realise that you should put it into a vase of water.  
Such a rose should not be allowed to wither.

Two notes of a startled bird’s cry rose on the still air outside, as if an alarm call to waken you to your senses. Looking outside, you realise hastily that you are late for work. You set aside the rose on your bedroom table, grab your discarded coat from the chair, and leave the house.

The walk takes longer than usual, and you see the tangled mists of an early autumn day fading into the thickets of hawthorn berries, heavy red bunches of berries decorating their boughs. A jaunty cock-robin pecks at the berries, but you do not notice him as you try to keep yourself focused on getting to work.  
But throughout the day you are distracted by thoughts of the handsome vision from last night.  
Your work is slipshod, careless. Your boss notices it, but despite his concerns does not make mention of it,  
It is just an off day, he reasons. Everyone has them.  
At the end of your shift, you distractedly wander, meandering vaguely homeward.  
The clarity of light was sufficient enough to walk by at this hour, and you glanced wistfully at the forest at the end of the path as you wander off the road to look.  
It was not too dark for a walk in the wood, you reasoned.

Withered blackberries dangle limply on branches, the birds have left these sour things for sweeter fruits, and you outstretch your ungloved hand to push an offending branch aside, your fingers brushing against the prickly wood. Downward, there are sounds underfoot of crisp leaves, and the crunching of husks of beechmast and discarded shells of acorn cups that were picked clean by errant squirrels for their winter supplies.  
As you walk deeper into the forest, you pass trees so knotted and gnarled their half-stripped branches play cat's-cradle with each other, making you feel enclosed and swallowed up by the trees.  
Perspective is difficult here, and you easily lose your way, but you do not care. You wander throughout the wood passing stout oak stumps crowned with the rusty slime of dead bracken and short white phallic mushrooms.  
You wish you had brought your camera.  
Turning around, you see your rustic figure, seductively propped against an ivy-covered tree.

He smiles. He beckons you forward with a solitary finger of uncanny narrowness.  
His eyes are now quite red, almost as red as your indecent rose.  
There are some eyes can eat you.

You walk forward, and he lays upon you his irrevocable hand.  
“Good Evening,” you say, the words hanging in the still air.  
He smiles as he takes your hand and kisses it. His firm yet rough lips gently pecking your hand.  
Your heart flutters briefly, and you smile as the Dryad looks up at you.  
“You have such a fine throat, like a column of marble.”  
Envisioning how his lips would feel against your throat makes your cheeks blush, and the Dryad chuckles quietly.  
There is a sudden breeze, one that snakes its tendrils of cold down your neck and you shiver.  
“Are you cold?” he asks as he rises, offering you the warmth of his embrace. You nod wordlessly, and nestle in the protective embrace between his arm and the chest. You feel unseasonably warm, and although your hand is embraced by the hard texture of his skin, he feels refreshingly cold against your desire.  
Hot sensual thoughts dance in your mind, and though you are briefly entertained by the notions, you shake them out of your head as you walk with your companion.  
Dazedly, you walk with him, and he points out the autumn blooms of the forest. You listen to the comforting tones of his voice, and you feel emboldened to reach up and kiss his cheek.  
His eyes briefly widen in surprise at first, but then he turns to face you and smiles an unusually warm smile.  
He cups his hand at your cheek, and you close your eyes and nestle into it. He draws his face closer to yours and his lips look extraordinarily fleshy, with wide, full prominent lips of a lusty brown colour. You shivered and began to lean into a kiss.  
A hair’s breadth apart from your lips, the Dryad pauses then draws back.  
You are outside your house, and he smiles wryly at your disappointed face as you enter the house.  
You dream flustered, erotic dreams that night, and wake up in a desperate sweat.

The next day, you call in sick. You tell them that you are feverish, running a temperature hot enough to saute mushrooms in, and that you have a malarial chill. You do not tell them of your anticipation for your visitor, though you find yourself absentmindedly stroking yourself during the call, and manage to pass the faint noises you make as the noises of a sick person trying to catch breath. Your boss agrees, you did look unwell yesterday, so he understands, and tells you to take the rest of the week off. Ending the call, you wonder sensual thoughts about this Dryad and wonder through heavy sighs if he would want to spend those days with you. Though you try to satisfy yourself, your fingers do not, and you find yourself hungering for the Dryad’s touch.  
You fritter away the hours nervously, cleaning yourself for him, beautifying yourself to draw him to you. Finding nothing you desire to wear in your closet, you muse about wearing nothing at all, and this arouses you, making you desire him further. Sitting down on the pile of discarded clothes that lie sprawled over your bed, you fan yourself and wonder what his penis looks like.  
You envision small catlike barbs, that thrust deep into you, stimulating and raking against your walls.  
Your mouth forms a round ‘o’ of pleasure, as you grind against the clothes, but you feel no distinct release from your thoroughly engorged desire, and you whimper wordlessly, begging him to visit, for the sun to set sooner, anything for you to feel him up against you in a sensual and pleasuring embrace.

It was almost midnight when he arrived, and you almost leaped out the door at him when he arrived.  
You stood at the doorway, as the Dryad hungrily looked at you, wearing a bedsheet for modesty for you were naked and glistening with anticipation underneath.  
He gestured for you to turn for him, and he smiled in admiration as you spun for him. He offered you his hand, stepping forwards as you walked out the door.  
When he kissed your hand, it excited your skin and made your nipples stand erect.  
He pulled you into his embrace, as you were lead into a waltz around the garden.  
“When you came through that door, retaining about you all the golden glow of day of which I know so well, it was if I had seen the goddess Aphrodite alight from her scallop shell for me.”  
The blood rushes to your face and stays there, and he leaves two small fluttering kisses on your cheek that drive you wild.  
He strips you, tender butcher that he is, as if he were stripping a rabbit of its skin, and you stand there naked, before he dresses you again in an embrace so lurid and encompassing, that makes you moan. Where his skin touches yours, it consoles and devastates you; You feel your pulse racing as he removes that last barrier of clothing and lets it fall to the ground with a soft thud.  
“Not Yet. Later. Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure, pet.” he whispers, when you beg him. His fingers languish caressing touches over your neck, as he brings his mouth close and -ach! You feel his sharp teeth in the depths of his rough and sensuous kisses. He twirls you to face him, and draws you into his embrace. 

He pulls your hand to his chest, where he slowly drags it down his skin the colour of fresh growth, pleasantly rough and taut as bone, and he has stiff, russet nipples as rosy as winter berries that beckon you to suck on them.  
He leaves many bruising kisses when you breathe hot breaths onto them, and he shivers against the warmth of it, and leaves dark thumbprints of soil on your skin, as he laps his rasping sensuous tongue against your skin, begging you to continue tracing your words of devotion on his nipples with his tongue.  
He pushes you down roughly into the grass with one hand, as you look upwards at him, his dark eyes shining with an eagerness that makes them far brighter than the wan and pale moon, and pins you down, at the mercy of his huge hands.  
He could thrust you into the earth with those hands, and you would let him do so because you desire him so badly, and want his skin to cover yours in his embrace. You want him to encompass you, holding you tightly as he promises that he is only yours, and you only his.  
What big eyes he has, you note as he stares down at you full of an insatiable hunger for your body.  
And then he kissed you. And this time with no false reticence. He kisses you and lays his hand imperatively upon your breast, clasping at it frantically as he runs his coarse tongue over your lips and into your mouth, gently nipping your tongue with his sharp teeth whenever you try to taste his.  
With his free hand, he twined your hair into a rope and lifted it away from your shoulders and broke away from your mouth so that he could better kiss the downy furrows below your ears, an action that made you moan when he ran his wet, abrasive tongue over them.

You moan indecently when he does this, and you feel a hot and damp presence growing between your legs, as your arousal makes itself prominently known.  
The Dryad breaks away from your neck, and you weakly paw at his arm to guide his large hands towards you, but he picks you up, his strong muscles surrounding your body.  
“Stand. I want to plant myself inside you.” His husky voice whispers against your hot neck. Your desire for him had thrown all caution to the wind as you took his hand and rose. 

He stood behind you, as your head turned to follow him, his hand grasping the twined rope of your hair across your neck as you stare at him enraptured, panting, slick with desire for him and only him.  
He approaches the side of your neck with a weary appetite, nipping hungrily as with one of his enormous hands, he thrusts himself between your legs, and runs a sharp fingernail lightly over your inner thigh, raking the sensitive skin as he pulls your hair tightly across your neck, and slides his flexible dark tongue over his love-bites.

Desperate for an intimate touch once more, you squeeze his exploring hand, and he briefly loses his composure as you turn to pepper him with lusty kisses as you grind against his hand. It startles him slightly, causing him to still in wordless appreciation, before he flips you over and pushes open your legs, hoisting them over his shoulders as he impales you with his large desperate aching need.

His stout stiffness surprises you as he thrusts into you. This is not like how you imagined earlier, and as he thrusts shallow thrusts into you, you swear that you’ve never felt so full in your life before. You cry out, you want only him and you want all of him now. There is nothing outside of yourselves that is important now, not the damp cold grass pushing irreverently against your back as you buck against him, or the gradually encroaching dawn. 

He pins your arms down with his hands, and your hands strain against his firm grasp that still holds your hair, clasping themselves open and shut on open air as you moan and gasp for air under him. You are deathly near your climax now, and each powerful thrust entices it out from you. Your body is covered with the administrations of his devotion, and your eyes are heavy-lidded with arousal and all you can see is his ethereal body, He spreads your legs apart a little further, and releases one of your hands from his firm grasp, raking his clawed finger down your body towards your lower depths, his fingers seeking to explore your warmth.  
When you realise what he meant to do to you, it is too late, and your muscles tense harder around his throbbing manhood causing him to groan under the strength of your walls as your bliss cascaded outwards, as you were consumed by the walls of fire inside you. He ravenously sinks his teeth into your neck, where an artery pulsates, fluttering as you find your release. You cry out wordlessly, a state between arousement and desolate surprise as he started to suckle on your neck, his harsh lips teasing ragged breaths and moans from you as he buries himself further into your warmth. Panting with desire, you swear that his thrusts have become more frantic, purposeful, and you orgasm many times, frenzied and slick as his skin covers yours entirely.  
Your eyes catch his, and for a bashful moment between being winded from the orgasm and awkwardness his suddenly mild eyes stand transfixed in your gaze, and you see your face repeated twice in his inscrutable eyes, small as budding flowers. And then he climaxes inside you, releasing a thick syrupy load that makes you feel ever so full as his fleshy cock squirms.

He lies beside you, his face is a little flushed, and his breathless chest flutters as you draw closer, using your hand to cup his face in a slow, romantic kiss as he slowly pulls himself out. He twitches under your caressing touches.  
“You’re so beautiful,” the Dryad sighs, his hand pressing lightly on your hip. He plants a single chaste kiss on your forehead, and you gaze upon him. His face is perfect, with wistful tired eyes, wild leafish hair, and a long tapering face wearing a mona-lisa smile on sunken cheeks. His floral plumage is crumpled in a manner of disarray about him that suggests a hint of vulnerability that intrigues you.  
There is a long pause. The Dryad doesn’t immediately speak, and stares at you wordlessly for a second.  
It is a long moment as you gaze into his eyes, which now look desperately human back into yours. You then plant a kiss on his pinched-brown lips.  
At first, he is visibly surprised, his eyes wide with the suddenness of being kissed, but then his expression melts away into contentment and bliss as he returns your affection and kisses you back. His hand has moved gradually upwards to your shoulders as he holds you against him.  
You are the first to pull away from the kiss, and the slight disappointment on his face as you do makes your heart flutter. It is a warm-blooded look, one that stirs desire inside you as you enter another, but more passionate kiss.


End file.
